


Talk

by illwick



Series: Unwind [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, Dirty Talk, Dom!John, John Watson's Dick, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sherlock is a Size Queen, Size Kink, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 22:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15519660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock was never much for dirty talk... until an unexpected visit yields unexpected results.





	Talk

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was: dirty talk
> 
> And for all the haters littering my comments thread demanding a fic about JOHN WATSON’S MASSIVE COCK: Look what you made me do.

When John approaches the stoop of 221B and notes that the door knocker has been straightened, it takes all of his willpower not to simply turn around, sit down, and bury his face in his hands. 

For the past six days, he and Sherlock had been working a case so complex that John’s brain felt completely fried. He was just returning home from another 12-hour shift of reviewing coroner’s reports in an attempt to connect no fewer than 16 separate cold cases that Sherlock had somehow become convinced were related, and he was in no mood to deal with Mycroft’s meddling. 

But alas, Mycroft stood between him and his warm, soft bed. While Sherlock was perfectly content to skim by on a mere three hours of sleep a night (if John could even convince him to partake in that), John himself was practically a zombie unless he managed to squeeze in at least five, and knowing that Sherlock would be expecting him to be back on the case as soon as the coroner’s office opened again in the morning, time was of the essence. There was no use in dawdling outside and hoping Mycroft would take his leave--if Sherlock hadn’t managed to dismiss him yet, there was a good chance he was in need of backup.

So John steels his resolve, sets his shoulders, and resolutely marches up the stairs. He finds Sherlock seated at the desk in the sitting room surrounded by a staggering collection of newspaper clippings. Mycroft, John notes with a prickle, is sitting in John’s chair, leaning back as though he owns the place.

“--is _completely unnecessary.”_

“Oh, sod off, Mycroft. I know damn well you wouldn’t be here unless you had something at stake; you’d never interfere with one of my cases unless it was your skin on the line. So what is it, hmmm? Perhaps a clandestine political entanglement you’d rather wasn’t brought out into the light of day? A personal grudge you’d prefer didn’t float to the surface? Just tell me now and save us both the trouble.”

“You’re incorrect on all accounts, brother mine. I merely heard word that you were poking around the Craneworthy files again, and I wanted to give you my _personal assurance_ that you needn’t bother. I oversaw the conclusion of that investigation myself back in 2005, and there’s simply--”

He’s cut off by an abrupt bark of laughter and whirls around in the direction of the sound, only to find John leaning casually against the doorframe, observing.

“Do you find something about this conversation _amusing,_ Doctor Watson?”

John shrugs off his coat as he crosses the threshold, hanging it up by the door before making his way to the kitchen to check the state of the kettle. “No, not particularly amusing, as it were. More along the lines of ‘unbelievably audacious,’ but that’s just me.”

“And what, dare I ask, do you find _audacious_ about it?”

John finds the kettle woefully empty. He plucks it off the stove and turns to fill it at the sink.

“Well, for starters, I find it audacious that you’d expect we’d believe, even for a _moment,_ that you’d show up at our flat without an ulterior motive.” He turns and flicks the burner on, then sets the kettle down to heat. Sherlock is observing John from his post at the desk in the sitting room, a sly smile beginning to creep across his face.

“I was simply trying to save you both the trouble--”

“Generous of you, really, but trouble’s never really bothered either of us.”

“Of that I am _painfully_ aware, Doctor Watson. But be that as it may, the Craneworthy case remains a delicate subject matter to this day. I fear neither of you has the… shall we say, _finesse_ to handle it properly, and I’d really rather avoid the humiliating task of needing to intervene when you’ve already found yourselves in over your heads.”

“I think you’ll find we’re both perfectly capable of determining what’s over our heads for ourselves, thanks.” John turns to rummage in the cupboard to see what, if anything, there was to eat in the flat. He finds a lonesome box of stale biscuits in the corner, and with a resigned sigh, pulls them out and grabs a few. A proper dinner was undoubtedly out of the cards for tonight.

In the sitting room, Mycroft refocuses his offense on Sherlock. “Sherlock, surely you understand. Besides, is it even truly necessary to involve the Craneworthy case in this at all? By my calculations, you’re working with fifteen other perfectly good cold cases at the moment--”

“And the Craneworthy incident just may be what’s connecting them all, Mycroft. Don’t play dumb with me. It’s insulting.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but deigns to stand and brush off the front of his suit. “Very well. Do what you will. But don’t come to me complaining when your investigation is inevitably derailed by some rather inconvenient legal loopholes, courtesy of a _much_ less understanding division of the government than the one I represent.”

“Please. As if you _represent_ any cause but yourself in all of this.” Sherlock’s glare is icy, and Mycroft returns it. A chilly silence descends over the scene.

“Mr. Holmes?” They all turn to find Anthea hovering in the doorway, looking as disinterested and aloof as ever. “We need to leave now, or risk being late for--”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Mycroft grabs his umbrella and strides towards the door before turning and making one last plea. “Sherlock. Leave it. This will be my last request.” And with that, he and Anthea descend the stairs.

The moment the front door closes, Sherlock stands up and kicks the desk chair so hard John actually jumps. “Belligerent, arrogant GIT!”

“Come on, now, don’t let him get to you. You know he’s just here to rile you up, yeah?”

“Be that as it may, I’m more convinced than ever that the cases are connected. Craneworthy is just the tip of the iceberg.”

The kettle whistles, drawing John back to the kitchen, where he fills their mugs and drops in the teabags to steep. “Regardless, I’m absolutely wiped.” He places Sherlock’s mug on the desk and retreats to his own chair with a sigh, leaning back and toeing off his shoes.

Sherlock, for his part, is staring sulkily out the window, summarily ignoring the tea. “Come on, Sherlock. Have some tea. Eat a biscuit. Take a breather. Give your hard drive a second to reboot. We can start up again in the morning, once we’ve both had some sleep.”

At this juncture in any case, John expects Sherlock to do one of two things: Either he’ll ignore John’s pleas entirely, or he’ll verbally lash out, accusing John of attempting to derail the investigation with his plebeian mortal desires for _nourishment_ and _sleep._

But tonight, shockingly, neither happens. Instead, Sherlock’s head slowly turns in John’s direction, and he eyes John appraisingly. After a moment, John could _swear_ he sees an actual lightbulb go off above Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock’s body language changes entirely. Mere seconds ago he’d been wound tight as a spring, but suddenly, his movements become languid and relaxed. He practically _saunters_ over to stand over John before leering down at him and licking his lips. If John didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock was about to make a move on him.

“You know, John, you’re absolutely right.”

“I… I am?” John is beyond flummoxed.

“Yes. You always are, you know. I think I need a _hard_ reset.” Sherlock’s voice has dropped an octave, and the words come out in a sultry purr.

 _What the hell?_ John’s completely thrown for a loop. There was no way Sherlock was trying to seduce him mid-case: he had a strict hands-off policy any time he was immersed in the Work. He’d always maintained that sex was a frivolous distraction when he was trying to do delicate brainwork, and John had learned not to take it personally.

“A hard… reset?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Sherlock bites his lip and bats his eyes.

John doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but really, Sherlock’s not leaving much room for interpretation here. He clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, depositing his tea on the end table. “Do you… need my help with something?”

“Oh, John, don’t be coy. You know exactly what I need.”

John blinks up at him stupidly. Because honestly, no, he really, really didn’t. “And what’s that?”

Sherlock drops to his knees and presses John’s legs resolutely apart. “Your cock.”

John is immediately very relieved that he’d put his tea to the side, because had he not, he’s fairly sure he’d be dealing with a lapful of scalding hot liquid. As it stands, he simply stares down at Sherlock uncomprehendingly.

“My… cock?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Sherlock reaches forward, his nimble fingers making quick work of John’s belt and flies. “I need it, John. You’ve made me desperate for it. Need you to fuck me so hard I feel it in my teeth, stretch me out so I can’t walk straight for days, fill me up until I’m leaking and desperate…”

What the _fuck_ was going on? John’s brain is struggling to process the scene playing out before him, because none of it is making any sort of sense whatsoever, but Sherlock remains undeterred. He simply dips his head and suckles the tip of John’s rapidly-swelling member into his mouth, before letting out a pornographic moan, his eyes flitting upward to meet John’s own.

And dammit, John knows he should put a stop to this, push Sherlock off of him and ask him why exactly he’d suddenly decided that sexual contact during a case was acceptable when in the past he’d been adamantly opposed, but the next thing he knows, Sherlock is sinking his plush lips down the length of his member and swallowing enthusiastically, and John’s head tips back as he lets out a strangled moan.

“Jesus, Sherlock! Christ! Mmmm, fuck… oh _God…”_

Sherlock pulls off with a slick _pop._ “You like how my mouth feels on your cock?”

John swallows hard. “Y-yes. God, yes.”

Sherlock licks his lips and grins up at him before leaning down and licking a stripe from John’s balls to his slit. “God, John, you taste so good, you’re so thick and perfect on my tongue, slipping deep down my throat...” He lowers his head and proceeds to bob up and down with aplomb before letting out another rumbling moan.

For a moment, John hesitates. This is… odd. 

Sherlock isn’t normally particularly verbose during sex. That’s not to say he isn’t _vocal;_ he screams, moans, pleads, begs, cries, and makes a delightful myriad of animalistic grunts and breathy sighs that ignite John’s blood each and every time he hears them.

But Sherlock isn’t much of a dirty talker. Not for lack of trying; they’d experimented with it a couple of times, but Sherlock had a tendency to get rather fixated on scientific descriptions of exactly what was going on, which was… less than sexy. He didn’t seem to understand hyperbole, he disliked name-calling, and abstract scene-building was completely outside his wheelhouse.

Before John can analyse the situation any further, though, Sherlock pulls away from John’s cock once more, then bats his eyes up at him imploringly. “So will you, John?”

“Will I… what?”

“Give me your cock? Please, John, I’ve been good, I’ve been so very good, I need you to fuck me, rail me with your throbbing manhood, _please…”_

What in God’s name--

“John, I’m begging you. You know I need it, you’ve spoiled me with it, please, need you inside me…”

John blinks twice and takes quick stock of the situation. Despite the fact that this behaviour is certainly new, there _had_ been precedent in the past for Sherlock, upon viewing something that struck his fancy while watching porn on his own time, to decide to incorporate what he’d seen into their real-world sex life without any type of warning whatsoever. Usually it was something as harmless as a new position, sometimes it was something more intense (like the time Sherlock had become briefly obsessed with fisting--John fights back a chuckle as he recalls what a disaster that had been), but overall, John generally wanted to encourage Sherlock’s forays into more adventuresome aspects of his own sexuality, and to not make him feel ashamed of them.

So it seemed Sherlock had been doing some dabbling into porn featuring dirty talk, and picked up a few tricks. There was nothing inherently risky or objectionable about it, as far as John could tell-- in fact, this might just be a rather pleasant turn-up, indeed. Perhaps it was time to give it another try.

“Mmm. You _need_ it, hmm?” John gives Sherlock the most appraising glance he can muster, and reaches down to begin to stroke himself. “You _need_ my cock?”

Sherlock’s response is barely a whisper from where he’s knelt, face inches away from John’s throbbing erection. “Oh, yes, _please.”_

John continues to lazily stimulate his shaft, watching intently as Sherlock licks his lips, transfixed. “Why don’t you tell me what you like about it?”

Sherlock’s eyes slam shut, and a full-body shudder wracks through him as he lets out a high-pitched whine. _Jesus;_ John had no idea Sherlock would be so into this, they really ought to have tried harder to sort this out after those first few failed attempts…

Finally, Sherlock opens his eyes and speaks, his voice high and desperate, his hands resolutely pressing John’s thighs apart. “I like… Christ, John, the way the thick head breaches my rim as you force your way inside of me. The way the girth of your shaft stretches me when you impale me, so big and long and hard, the biggest cock I’ve ever, _ever_ taken…”

John makes no mention that he knows for a fact his is the _only_ cock Sherlock’s ever taken; this seems to be part of whatever game Sherlock is playing at the moment.

“And when you’re inside me, John, you’re so massive I can’t breathe when I take you. You think it’s easy for me because I take it like a champion? No, John, it’s agony every time, but I do it because of the _ecstasy_ you bring me when you’re filling me up, claiming me, fucking me so deep I can’t think, I can’t move, I can only lie there and take it. Oh, _fuck,_ John, I need it, need you now, please, _please…”_

John grins down at him lecherously, his brain now happily along for the ride on whatever fantasy Sherlock is currently spinning for them. “You need this cock?” John jerks himself more rapidly, a dribble of precome leaking from his slit.

Sherlock nods frantically. _“Yes,_ John, _yes!_ I need your _giant_ cock inside me this instant!”

“Go get the lube from the sofa. Open yourself up for me. But not too much; I want you nice and tight.”

“Yes, John!” And with that, Sherlock scrambles across the room to retrieve the emergency stash of lube they’ve taken to hiding in the sofa cushions for moments just like this one. Seconds later, he’s back kneeling between John’s legs, watching intently as John strokes himself while Sherlock unfastens his belt and pulls his own trousers down to mid-thigh. He coats two fingers with liquid, and reaches behind himself. Though John can’t see exactly what he’s doing, the familiar cringe that flickers across Sherlock’s face offers little to the imagination. Moments later, any signs of discomfort have been replaced by the lust-hazed stare of the man knelt between his legs, his arm moving in a rhythmic motion as he fingers himself, pupils blown wide.

“So, love, why don’t you tell me more about what you’d like me to do to you?” Now that John’s gotten a taste of Sherlock’s new skill, he’s eager to hear what other interesting tidbits Sherlock may have picked up.

Sherlock groans, and he reaches forward with his free hand to stroke up John’s thigh, staring hungrily down at where John is pleasuring himself.

“I want… God, John, I want to sit on your enormous prick; take it all in one slide, just the way I like it, so that it hurts, it hurts so much, filling me up until I think I might split in two. And then I want to ride you until I feel I’m going to burst, until my arse is so sore I can’t carry on, and I’m begging to take your come.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John’s honestly a bit taken aback; this was a radical departure from their past failed attempts at dirty talk, and it’s such a wild improvement, John’s having trouble processing any of it.

Sherlock remains undeterred, his gaze never wavering from John’s cock as he grunts lightly, clearly working his fingers deeper into his own arse in preparation.

“But you won’t be done with me just yet.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Oh, no?”

“Mmm-mmm. You’ll push me off of you, onto my hands and knees on the middle of the floor. Then you’ll take me from behind and ream me until I’m screaming for mercy, so stuffed with cock I can’t breathe from the heat of it.”

“Oh my God.” John slows the movement of his own hand on his member; if Sherlock keeps this up, he’s going to come before they’ve even had a chance to touch each other.

“But you won’t be merciful. You’ll make me take your member until I’m wrecked and ruined, stretched so far I’m wondering if I’ll ever be able to walk right again. And then, and only then, will you take your thick cock and force it so deep in me I can’t help but come. And that’ll be painful, too, because I’ll be clamped so tight around you, and my passage won’t be able to take your girth anymore, and I’ll beg you to pull out, but you won’t, you’ll just pummel me until I’m spent, and then hold me down and make me take some more.”

John swallows hard. There’s still a tiny voice in the back of his mind wondering if Sherlock literally _memorised an entire monologue_ from some porno he found online, but hell, he wasn’t about to complain.

“And then… and then--” Sherlock sounds a bit dazed, and his breath hitches; John can tell he’s added a third finger to his preparations. “And then you’ll come in me. Fill me up with your massive prick, put your come so far inside me with it that I’ll be carrying you for days. And every time you look at me… you’ll know.”

John’s so turned on he feels dizzy. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, if you want to make good on any of this, you need to get up here right the hell now.”

Sherlock withdraws his fingers from his arse and clambers to his feet rather less gracefully than usual. He quickly strips off his trousers and pants (but leaves on his shirt and suit jacket, much to John’s vague amusement) then turns to face away from John before throwing a leg over to straddle him. John holds the base of his own cock steady, and Sherlock reaches behind himself to part his own arsecheeks. John grips him by the hip, and guides him gently onto his throbbing member.

Sherlock impales himself in a single slide, just as he’d promised. He throws his head back and _howls,_ and John shouts at the sensation of being engulfed in that perfect, consuming heat.

“Oh, GOD, John! Fuck, you’re so big! Oh God, oh GOD!”

John moans, his hands flying up to Sherlock’s waist, holding him in place as John grinds up into him.

“Nnnnngh! Oh, that’s it, John! That’s it! Ohhhhhh, fuck, your prick feels so good. Feels so good inside me, oh, John, John!”

John had never really been bothered by Sherlock’s inability to talk dirty before, but now that he’s getting a taste of it, he finds he’s oddly _flattered_ by it. True, Sherlock’s usual moans and wails and cries offer little room for interpretation, but something about hearing him actually vocalise what he’s feeling is rather satisfying, indeed.

“Oh, you like that? You like taking this cock?”

“Ohhhhhh, yes!” Sherlock seems rather receptive to John participating in this little endeavor as well, so John leans into it.

“Mmmm, better ride it, then. Go on, give me a nice little show.”

“Oh, YES, John, yes!” And with that, Sherlock begins to bounce frantically on John’s lap.

“Oh, yeah, that’s it, Sherlock! Oh, yeah, take that cock, just like that, fuck, you ride it so goo-- well! You ride it so well!”

John reaches down to grip Sherlock’s pert arsecheeks, massaging them firmly as he watches, transfixed, as they jiggle in time with Sherlock’s rhythmic motions. 

Sherlock’s arse is, in John’s humble opinion, one of the true wonders of the world. Watching his own slick member disappearing into the velvety heat between those perfect porcelain orbs over and over again is so devastatingly erotic, John can’t tear his eyes away from the sight.

“Nngh! Nngh, John! Oh fuck! You’re so big! You’re too big! I can’t! Oh, I’ll be ruined! Oh, oh, I can’t!”

“Come on, yes you can! You can do it, love, come on! I know you can!”

“OH! OH! AH! AH!” Sherlock lets out an obscene series of exclamations with each undulation of his own pelvis.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it! Ride it, just like that!”

“Oh! Oh, I can’t take much more! It’s too much! Oh, John, it’s-- oh! Oh! Oh!”

John grips Sherlock’s arsecheeks and pries them as far apart as possible before issuing a series of demanding thrusts up into the tight, wet heat engulfing him. Sherlock lets out a plaintive wail. “OH, John, you’re so hard! So hard! You’re-- nnngh, deep! So deep inside me, oh God, I can’t take it! I can’t!”

John grins to himself. He knows damn well Sherlock’s taken him in this position countless times (and in a dazzling variety of infinitely more challenging positions and to much more intense degrees of roughness), so these newfound complaints he’s vocalising appear to be part of whatever fantasy they’re weaving together.

“Fuck, yes you can, you WILL, you asked for it, love, and now you’re gonna take it.” John pounds relentlessly up into him, and Sherlock screams.

“John! John, I’m going to come! Oh fuck! You’re going to make-- make me come on your massive prick! OH! OH!”

“Oh, no you don’t.” John reaches up and gives the curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck a playful tug, and Sherlock keens. “I’m not done with you yet.” With that, he unceremoniously unseats Sherlock and gives him a light push forward.

Sherlock tumbles onto his hands and knees (considerably more theatrically than the amount of force applied would merit), and John almost giggles to himself. He’s not quite sure what this new game is yet, but he’s finding it very entertaining (and his cock wholeheartedly agrees). Sherlock arches his back and moans, presenting himself so enticingly that John nearly loses his balance in his rush to extricate himself from his chair and take his place on the floor on his knees behind Sherlock. Without fanfare, he grips Sherlock forcefully by the hips, lines himself up, and thrusts inside.

“AUGH! Oh, JOHN, JOHN, YES!” Sherlock shouts and collapses forward onto his forearms as John pistons roughly into him, his voice shaking with the force of John’s thrusts. “OH, that’s it! That’s it! Oh, God, give me your cock, give it to me, just like that, yes, John, YES!”

John tightens his grip around Sherlock’s hips and stares down at where Sherlock’s cheeks are bouncing enticingly in time with the plunging of John’s member between them. “Ohhhhh yes, you take it so well, love, take my cock, you’re so perfect, so perfect, going to fill up your hungry arse…”

“YES, John, please! Fill me up! OH! OH! GAH! Oh, fuck, John, please, it’s too much, I can’t take anymore, I need it, please, PLEASE!”

“You want it?”

“Yes, God yes!”

“Then you’ll have to earn it. Come for me, love.”

“Nnnnngh! I can’t, I can’t, you’re too big, you’re _too big,_ oh, my arse can’t take it!”

“Oh, yes it can! Gonna _make_ your tight hole take it! Come on, now…”

“Ohhhh, John, please…AH! AH!”

John begins to strike Sherlock’s prostate directly, at the angle he knows always brings him to the brink. He’s fairly certain if he were to reach around and stroke Sherlock right now he’d go off in a matter of seconds, but this whole encounter is making John feel rather greedy; he wants Sherlock to come untouched, an occurrence which never fails to send John on a heady power trip.

Sherlock lets out a guttural moan, then John feels his muscles begin to coil in preparation for release. Grinning to himself, John doubles down on his efforts.

“OHHHH! John, I’m-- you’re going to make me-- oh, God, I can’t, I can’t, I’m going to-- I’m coming! I’m coming! -- OH!”

And with that, Sherlock’s body constricts so tightly around John’s member that the sensation is nearly painful. John gasps with the awe of it, but the sound is drowned out by the colourful string of expletives issuing from Sherlock’s lips. He thrashes and swears, but John holds him steady, working him diligently through the ecstasy until his wails turn to whimpers and his body is quivering and spent.

“Oh, gorgeous, love, beautiful!”

“Mmm. John, John, please.” Sherlock’s voice sounds wet and unsteady, but John doesn’t relent.

“Please what, love?”

“I… I can’t take you any longer. It’s too much, it’s too large, I can’t… I can’t, please, please, have mercy on me.”

John lets out a sigh filled with feigned exasperation. “I suppose, since you’ve been so good for me.”

“Oh, I have been, John, please, just come in me, I want it, I need it, put all your come deep inside me with your _gargantuan_ cock…”

John honestly has no clue what Sherlock is rambling on about, but at this point, he doesn’t particularly care. Sherlock sounds well and truly wrecked, so John doesn’t concern himself with the exact contents of his current soliloquy. Instead, he reaches up to press his forearm across Sherlock’s shoulders, forcing Sherlock off his elbows until his torso meets the carpet, arse still raised dutifully into the air. John grips him by the hip with his free hand, and reams him for all he’s worth.

John doesn’t last long. In this position, Sherlock’s channel is clamped so tightly around his cock that it feels like a vice, extracting his release from him in clenching, consuming pulls. He comes with a violent shout, hips snapping demandingly against Sherlock’s plush arse as he fills him with come, riding him until his shouts turn to moans, and then fade away entirely.

The silence is deafening. They’re both breathing hard, wet rattles within their heaving chests, but aside from that, there’s nothing but oppressive stillness. John groans lightly, grinding softly into Sherlock as his prick twitches and begins to soften. Sherlock only musters a hiccuping whimper.

Finally, the haze passes and the dizziness subsides. John rights himself and withdraws from Sherlock as gently as possible, collapsing back onto his heels. “Jesus Christ.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s response is muffled where his face is buried on his forearms.

John swallows and takes a deep breath. “Hold… hold still for a sec, let me check you over.” He reaches forward to part Sherlock’s cheeks, and notes that everything looks in order; no signs of tearing. “Going to touch you inside really briefly now, okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He knows John insists on checking him over every time they have penetrative intercourse, particularly when they’d been rough.

John dips his finger into Sherlock’s hole as delicately as he can. He moves it in and out a few times, checking for any signs of damage. Finding none, he withdraws, and gives Sherlock’s left arsecheek a playful pinch. “All good.”

“Mmm. Good.” With that, Sherlock rises off his forearms and clambers to his feet, still looking a bit unsteady. “Just going to wash up.” He bends down and plucks his discarded pants and trousers off the floor, then pads off through the kitchen in the direction of the bathroom. Moments later, John hears the taps rattle to life.

For his part, John feels that standing is entirely beyond his capacity. He manages to pull himself up just far enough to collapse back into his chair with a satiated sigh. He closes his eyes and stretches out his legs (his knees were a bit achy-- Christ, they really were getting too old for floor sex), reveling in the post-coital bliss.

The next thing he knows, he’s being hit directly in the face with a warm, wet flannel. “Oy!” He extricates himself from beneath the flannel to find a fully-clothed and recomposed Sherlock glaring down at him expectantly, all hints of his prior debauchment completely, startlingly evaporated.

“Come on, John, wash up. You need to eat real food before you sleep tonight; those biscuits won’t hold you over. We can make it to China Palace before they close if we leave right now.”

John narrows his eyes and gives Sherlock an appraising look. It’s so unlike Sherlock to suggest a meal of any sort during a case, John can’t help but be a bit suspicious. “You’re hungry?”

“I’m not, but you’re ravenous, and those stale biscuits won’t hold you over. If you don’t eat now, you’ll spend the better part of tomorrow morning ornery and useless, and I need your brain in top shape when you’re reviewing those reports; it’s not like you have a lot of mental bandwidth to spare on the state of your stomach.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Gee, when you flatter me like that--”

“Come ON, John. All that oxytocin has me feeling benevolent, so it’s undoubtedly in your best interest to take full advantage before it wears off.”

Despite himself, John lets out a chuckle. He gives himself a rather hasty wipe-down with the flannel, then rises on unsteady legs and re-fastens his jeans. He’s fairly certain he still looks disheveled enough that a discerning onlooker might be able to deduce what they’d just been up to, but hell, he was going to China Palace, not Buckingham. Chances are they wouldn’t be running into any acquaintances worth making an impression on at this hour, anyhow.

Twenty minutes later, John’s shoveling the first piping hot bite of lo mein into his mouth as he watches Sherlock text furiously, brow furrowed in concentration. Sherlock’s uncharacteristically thoughtful behaviour hadn’t endured past their doorstep; by the time they were halfway down the street, his nose was buried in his phone, and he’d slid into their usual booth without so much as glancing up in John’s direction, he was so engrossed in the contents of the screen. 

John couldn’t bring himself to care. He was beyond ravenous, and for once, Sherlock’s reluctance to make small talk is a welcome respite. John simply focuses on filling his stomach, indulging himself in a lovely mental recap of the evening’s events whilst gazing placidly at Sherlock, who somehow appears as put-together and aloof as ever. He looks ethereally beautiful, his high cheekbones contoured by the dim glow of the neon sign, and John smiles to himself; The fact that a mere half hour ago he had Sherlock on his hands and knees begging like a wanton whore is a juxtaposition so stark, John can’t help but revel in it. 

He sometimes still can’t believe he gets to have Sherlock like that. It’s a gift beyond compare.

John’s just polishing off his egg roll when Sherlock pockets his phone with an exasperated sigh.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes. But my source is signing off for the night. There’s nothing more I can do until morning.”

John gives him a sympathetic smile. “Sounds like your source might just be a real live human being, who actually needs sleep at this time of night.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Boring.” He slouches back against the polyester fabric of the booth, gazing sulkily out the window.

John takes a sip of his jasmine tea. He knows he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but still, he can’t help himself. “Okay, I have to ask… back at the flat, what… what exactly brought that on?”

“Brought what on?” Sherlock’s gaze doesn’t waver from the window.

“Just… I mean, we’ve tried dirty talk before, and it wasn’t exactly successful. But that was… um, quite the performance. So… why now? And in the middle of a case, no less?”

Sherlock’s eyes flick over to meet John’s, and he gives a cavalier shrug. “I suppose in the past when it’s been just the two of us, it felt… like we were reciting lines, playing pretend. It’s not that I don’t mean what I’m saying, I’m thinking those exact things all the time when we’re being intimate, but for the most part when I try and vocalise them, they come out as sounds, not words.”

John cocks his head. “So why was tonight any different?”

Sherlock chews his bottom lip and pauses, as if in reflection. “When I said it felt like reciting lines, giving a performance… I guess it turns out that I need an audience to give it that extra degree of verisimilitude.”

“An… audience?”

“Yes.” Sherlock reclines further back into the booth, picking up a chopstick and twirling it in his fingers.

John is completely flummoxed. “What… what audience?”

Sherlock sighs. “The bug.”

“The bug?”

“Yes. The bug.” Sherlock is giving him a pointed _Look._

“No, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“You’re giving me the Look!”

“What--”

“The _‘We Both Know What’s Really Going On Here’_ Look!”

“Well, don’t we?”

“Do I honestly have to spell it out for you? I have no bloody idea what you’re going on about!”

Sherlock’s brow creases, and he cocks his head. “Mycroft bugged the flat when he came over earlier to pester us about the Craneworthy case. I thought that was _fairly_ obvious.”

John opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again. He clenches and unclenches his fists. He tries to count backwards from ten, but he only makes it to eight before he snaps. “No, that wasn’t bloody OBVIOUS! You mean to tell me that EVERYTHING that just happened back at our flat was being RECORDED?”

“Not recorded, John, probably just transmitted. You really didn’t realise that?” He looks sincerely perturbed.

John’s cheeks are burning so hotly, he’s certain they must be on fire. “For FUCK’S SAKE!” He hisses, willing himself to stay in control and not cause the type of scene that would get them banned from the restaurant for life. 

Sherlock blinks back at him, incomprehension still etched into the furrows on his forehead. “So you didn’t realise when we were… _oh._ I guess that’s a bit Not Good?”

John uses every bit of restraint in his possession to keep his voice down. “A BIT not good? A BIT NOT GOOD? Sherlock, you just sent a transmission of us having graphic sex to your own bloody BROTHER. This is so far past Not Good, I don’t even know how to start to quantify it for you--”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dismissively. “Don’t be obtuse, John, Mycroft will never hear a breath of that audio. There’s no way he’s monitoring the transmissions himself; it’ll be some faceless, nameless government drone he’s assigned the unhappy task to. They’ll be in the rather awkward position of having to report back their findings, and once they do, Mycroft will know that the game is up. He’ll realise continuing to listen in is useless, and have the bug removed. Simple.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. He at least feels marginally better, knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t be directly privy to what had just transpired in their sitting room. Finally, he feels in control enough to speak. He raises his head, meets Sherlock’s eyes, and wills himself to be patient and diplomatic.

“Okay. Okay. But Sherlock, we talked about making assumptions about what other people do and don’t understand. You shouldn’t have assumed I knew there was a bug in the flat. And you definitely shouldn’t have let any aspect of our private lives be recorded or transmitted without my explicit consent. Okay?”

Sherlock blinks up at John through downturned lashes, looking properly abashed for once in his life. “Alright. Sorry, John.”

John sighs deeply, and takes another drink of tea. His face finally seems to be cooling, and he’s fairly certain he’s not about to throttle Sherlock in cold blood. “Apology accepted. But next time, maybe we just crush the bug and throw it out, yeah?”

Sherlock lets out an indignant huff. “But where’s the fun in that?”

They make their way back to the flat in the misty glow of the streetlights, the companionable silence stretching warmly between them. John finds himself mildly startled to find a sleek black car already parked outside their front door, idling ominously, and he and Sherlock exchange a pointed look.

“Well, that worked rather more quickly than I anticipated,” Sherlock quips as he pushes open the front door. They nearly collide with an uncharacteristically breathless Anthea, clearly having just descended from the floor above.

“Oh! Hello.” Her voice sounds unnaturally casual, and John raises his eyebrows in response.

“Hi. Can we help you?”

“Just… retrieving a little something Mr. Holmes left behind rather by mistake.”

Sherlock appears unable to disguise his amusement. “Ah.”

“I’ll just be going, then.” She pushes resolutely past them them, and offers Sherlock a curt nod of her head. “Mr. Holmes.” Then she turns and throws an unmistakably flirtatious wink over her shoulder. _“John.”_

And with that, she disappears into the night.

John turns slowly to face Sherlock, who simply gives him a smug, satisfied smile. “You can thank me later.”

John shakes his head. “Ooh, you’re a bad, bad man.”

Sherlock just laughs and makes his way upstairs, John following closely behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Real talk: Not tagging this as non-con, because although there are non-consensual elements to this, it was the result of honest miscommunication. Sherlock’s intentions weren’t malevolent or manipulative, and he admitted his fault and agreed to correct his behaviour in the future.
> 
> Leave comments. Leave requests. Leave random thoughts that I can join you in pontificating.


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